The Neighbour's Wife

The Good Man

2011-12-27T01:08:00.000-05:00

Today in this world a good man is dying. He is not famous and when he does take his last breath, no media outlets will report the loss. Like many men in their mid-thirties, the Good Man is a father, a husband and a friend. He is loyal to his mates, and pretty much as honest as they come. He is not the sort to want me, or anyone else to list his achievements or attempt to use rhetoric to make the ordinary seem extraordinary, and so I won’t. Nor will I dwell on the fact that we will once again lose someone far too young far too soon, because that just seems to be a growing aspect of our world. I won’t focus on the scourge that is ‘the C word’ and its random and ruthless attacks, nor will I use this as an opportunity to remind others of the importance of maintaining a ‘healthy lifestyle’ because let’s be honest, that is no protection against the cruelty of fate.

What I will do is attempt, in my own awkward way, to thank the Good Man for what he has given those around him, perhaps without even knowing he has done so.

I am told that the diagnosis of a serious illness can often prompt people to seek a different lifestyle and with that an alternative means of income. Perhaps those test results, those moments in a sterile doctor’s office is the impetus to do something you never really had the courage to do in the past, or always figured there was still time to do. When he discovered he was ill the Good Man left his job teaching at a local High School and began doing something he had always loved – using his hands to build, to create. He had already built his family home (I mean really build, not the Jewish version, in which “We’re building a house” actually means, “We’ve hired an overpriced architect to design us an obnoxiously large family home – just imagine Tuscan villa meets ‘The Jetsons’ -, and we keep calling our equally overpriced contractor changing our minds about what we want where”), and he began to share his talent.

The Good Man built our back room – the place my children go to play and have parties, to hang out with their friends. This is the room that sees them use their imagination. It is in there that my youngest son paints his random and colourful canvases and it is there that he and his sister often go to create buildings and worlds of their own, granted on a slightly smaller scale. My eldest son uses the room as a space of solace and escape from his two younger and often noisier siblings. My husband exercises in that room – an attempt to reclaim physical and mental health. The space is often referred to as “The Room the Good Man Built”, and whenever Hubby and I consider knocking the entire house down to build a slightly larger, more practical home for ourselves and our three children, our throats catch, for we know it would me the demolition of “The Room the Good Man Built” and the part of himself man puts into everything he creates – not something either of us are prepared to do.

The Good Man built my parent’s deck, a place that is now the site of family barbeques and meals. It is a space we now often gather and a place that allows my mother – now also suffering with ‘the C word’ – to sit and enjoy her newly landscaped garden – something the Good Man also had a hand in. I know this space brings my parents peace – something they have not actually been all that good at finding throughout their lives. My father sits out there and feeds his birds, content to commune with a few small members of Australia’s wildlife. My mother sits at the table, with a mug of coffee or tea, reading a trashy magazine and for a moment at least manages to forget all she has to call me and complain about – something I am truly grateful for.

The Good Man built a pizza oven in his backyard. He called us together and we ate too much, drank too much and laughed far too hard for a group of friends who had recently found out one of their own was now at the mercy of the limited power of medicine. Then he built another oven in the back garden of a mutual friend. Once again, we came together to eat, drink and laugh. To live.

Then it was our turn. Right next to “The Room the Good Man Built” stands a pizza oven which has provided warmth, heat and light as well as mouth-wateringly good homemade pizzas which our families and friends have all shared. Everything tastes better when you’ve had a hand in it. Fresh pizza, hot from the oven was the food of choice at my daughter’s third birthday party last year, as well as at my father’s birthday dinner this year and friends will gather around it in less than a week, when we see in the New Year together.

The Good Man has fixed odds and ends for friends of ours and for people across Melbourne I have never met and will probably never know. When I get angry and frustrated over what has befallen the Good Man and his family I attempt to find consolation in the fact that years from now, after we’re all gone, there will hopefully still be a part of the Good Man dotted all over Melbourne. He will be in a mended fence or step, in a deck and a garden bed, in a back room and a house, and in a series of pizza ovens that will hopefully continue to bring families and friends together to eat and drink, laugh and live.

Room 101

2011-11-26T22:43:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I was compelled to sit through my eldest son’s THREE-AND-A-HALF HOUR dance concert.

I’ll just give you some time to let that little fact sink in.

That’s right. Three-and-a half-hours.

Now, I know there are parents out there who will declare me an unfit mother and be on the phone to DHS within seconds for this confession, but I’ve decided the truth must come out regardless of these risks. And the truth is, watching children perform, for the most part, sucks arse.

There. I’ve said it. I absolutely hate it. Notice of an upcoming school concert sends cold tingles down my spine. While for Winston Smith it was a rat chewing at his face, my Room 101 is being stuck front row centre at a primary school’s musical evening. If I could be transported back in time, I would not choose to kill Hitler or Attila the Hun. I would hunt down the sadistic monster who decided that children needed to learn to play the recorder and save mankind from that particular tragedy. Seriously, who in the world declared that device to be a musical instrument? And what crazy person first put it in the hands of a child?

Every year I am forced to sit through my younger son’s school concert. For me it is like nails down a blackboard. The ridiculous narrative, the god-awful dialogue, the clumsy little kids who can barely walk in a straight line, never mind actually dance. Then there are the jazz hands.

I truly believe audience members should receive a Valium and a hip flask filled with vodka with every ticket purchased.

And just when you think it can’t get any worse, the singing starts. The horrendous, off key, it would be funny if it wasn’t so god damned torturous, singing. It makes me want to scream.

Then there is the post-concert nightmare. All the parents, glowing with pride, “Weren’t they just wonderful?! Weren’t they absolutely amazing?!” No they weren’t. They were absolutely awful. They made me want to stick pins in my eyes and champagne corks in my ears. They were a blight on the performing arts industry. They were the furthest thing from “wonderful” possible.

And it seems the more god-awful a particular child is in said performance, the more over-the-top the parent’s response is. Parents who know their offspring are actually okay at being on stage tend to say very little about it. However, in what can only be described as the most bizarre correlation know to science, the parent of the tone deaf, talentless hack who continuously falls over her own feet and spends most of the show pulling her underpants out of her arse crack, will go on ad infinitum about how “blown away” she or he is by Junior’s “amazing” performance.

Is it just me? Surely there are other parents who also head to their little one’s end-of-year kindergarten performance with the same level of enthusiasm they bring to an impending root canal?

I don’t dislike the theatre – quite the opposite. I really enjoy watching a play, or attending the ballet. I love the arts – visual and performing. And I am in no way saying that this area should not be the domain of our children. It absolutely should. I have no problem spending a small fortune on little Nureyev’s lessons every year and I am very happy about the fact that he is doing something active, something that he enjoys and something that affords him the chance to express himself. I enjoy taking him to dance performances and musicals, discussing what we enjoyed about them, and then singing along to the overpriced CD-soundtrack we bought at the theatre on the way out.

However, for the same reason we do not allow little Johnny who may, one day, in many, many years become a brain surgeon, to operate on an actual human until he is trained, qualified and ready, so too should we not allow bumbling little Betty tread the boards until she has proven that she can carry a tune and put one foot in front of the other without falling over. And even then, there should never, ever, ever be jazz hands. Ever.

Natural Talent

2011-11-25T04:31:00.001-05:00

This post goes out to all those true believers out there, those who cling passionately to a conviction, despite the critics and the naysayers. This post is dedicated to all those mummies and daddies out there who believe their kids are awesome and amazing, despite the very clear and very precise evidence to the contrary.

As a teacher I have had the pleasure of encountering these kinds of parents, and let me say, there is no greater nightmare. There is no comment that causes a teacher to quake with fear quite like, "I just don't think you have the skills to really bring out the best in my child". The very fact that the seemingly sane parent standing before you believes there even is a "best" in their child pretty much proves how delusional they actually are.

As a parent I believe I am fairly aware of my children’s flaws. While my eldest is quite bright academically, he can also be incredibly bossy and self-righteous. In fact, he has the propensity to be quite obnoxious at times. My youngest, at the tender age of three, is totally indulged thanks to two big brothers and a mother just thankful she was blessed with a daughter after two boys. As a result she can be a bit of a drama queen and a tad - okay, more than a tad - of a princess. My middle child is, well, a middle child in the most extreme sense of the term. To coin a phrase, he has 'issues'. Lots of them. So, in no way do I believe any of my children is even cresting the boarder of perfection. They are each, in their own very special way, incredibly and utterly flawed.

Caught in a conversation with two kinder mums today I was struck by the rose-tinted glasses many parents choose to don whenever they look towards their children.

In past blogs I've mentioned Little Miss It's All About Me. Apparently, it's now also all about Little Miss It's All About Me Jnr, Little Miss IAAM's youngest child. I was not aware this child was so exceptional. I was under the assumption that Little Miss IAAM Jnr was just your average three-year-old. Cute kid, quite friendly and fairly well-mannered. I will admit, I have noticed that she does possess an amazingly beautiful head of hair. Long, luxurious black locks that tumble down her back and gleam in the sunshine. I was not however aware of the fact that she is, according to Little Miss IAAM, "a born leader". Here I was, stupidly thinking that when a three-year-old is picking her nose, she is doing just that. How remiss of me not to realise that she is actually demonstrating keen and insightful leadership skills. But then again, what would I know?

So, Little Miss It's All About Me is chatting to me and a woman I can only refer to as Completely Delusional Mummy - CDM. The three of us are discussing the kinder teacher all our children have shared over the past year. Now, while this particular teacher isn't my favourite, I have found her to be a totally acceptable educator. She has taught my child to be independent, and has been thoroughly honest about my little princess's strengths and weaknesses. All-in-all, I have been quite happy. The two women I was chatting with however were of quite the opposite opinion.

"She hasn't really appreciated how special my son is", complained CDM. Now, CDM's offspring is indeed 'special'. He's known in the class for being the loudest, the craziest, the most 'special' in a whole bunch of ways. According to this woman however, it is the teacher's failings that have resulted in her son being known for being an unruly little shit. It's not, of course, because her child is in fact an unruly little shit.

"I know what you mean.” sighed Little Miss IAAM, "She hasn't given Little Miss IAAM Jnr any real chance to shine..."

What?! No election of class president so Jnr can reveal her instinctive leadership skills? At least give her the chance to be toilet-flush monitor! Or put her in charge of covering the sandpit so the local cats don't piss in it overnight. And to think, this is a private school. Tsk, tsk!

"She really relates best to the parents of the ordinary kids. You know, the ones who have no real clear talent or ability." Little Miss IAAM smiles sweetly at me. I stifle the urge to punch her in the face.

But she's right. At the tender age of three, my daughter has no real clear talent or ability. I consider it a win if she manages to wipe her bottom AND wash her hands after doing a poo. At no point over the past three years and ten months has Princess demonstrated any particular aptitude. So, clearly my little one is not as talented as the offspring of Little Miss IAAM and CDM. I think I can cope with that. And as I spy all three of our children jumping up and down in the dirt, chanting, “I’m the king of the castle and you’re a bit of an arsehole” I wonder which particular genius taught them that little diddy. Surely it was a ‘special’ child, or a “born leader”.

Or even more likely, it was a middle child with ‘issues’.

Climbing Ladders

2011-11-23T21:15:00.000-05:00

It has come to my attention that some people are just shit at their jobs. Not simply incompetent, but really and truly awful. They don’t truly understand what the vital aspects of their role are and perhaps most disturbingly, they have absolutely no idea of how to get the best out of those around them.

These flaws are most clearly revealed in those erroneously placed in positions of responsibility and leadership which far outweigh their natural talent and abilities. This has been abundantly clear in the case of Ms UnPC.

In the illustrious educational institution that I currently call home Ms UnPC occupies a significant administrative position, a role which requires her to lead and inspire both staff and students. Unfortunately, at present Ms UnPC is about as inspiring as that little bit of drool which oozes out of the corner of your husband’s mouth after he has passed out from drinking a dozen or two too many beers.

However, it must be noted that this was not always the case.

Ms UnPC arrived at the school around the same time I did, and when she first came here she was amazing. She was a wonderful teacher to her students and mentor to other staff. She had previously been teaching at another equally illustrious institution and so was able to instruct a novice like myself on how to navigate the perilous waters I found myself in, or as she put it, “play the game”. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Ms UnPC played the game so well that she was eventually promoted to a position far beyond her natural talents.

Since taking on that position she has become increasingly, well, shit. Now, I firmly believe that people, both young and old will forgive a multitude of sins in their leaders. They will forgive when issues arise or when matters don’t go exactly as planned. Most reasonable human beings understand that everyone at some stage makes a mistake or allows what they should have attended to, to slide under the radar. What is not so easily pardoned is when those in positions of leadership treat those around them, and perhaps more importantly, those they perceive to be under them, badly. Colleagues get even more disconcerted when they’re treated poorly over again not because they have done anything wrong, but because the individual treating them shoddily is simply frustrated by her own inabilities. Simply stated, Ms UnPC got a job too big, too complicated and too demanding, and quickly metamorphosed into an infantile bitch who treats everyone around her like crap because she is stressed. A true leader.

Ms UnPC has been on a sliding slope for a number of years now. Her popularity has plummeted like a post-Divine Brown Hugh Grant. Even her previous fans are no longer singing her praises. Or even whispering them. The shine has indeed rubbed off this once special little lady.

The other day I passed Ms UnPC in the school quad. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping. VCE exams over, most staff are feeling reasonably light-hearted. I smiled and greeted her, “Hi, how are you?” Snout up in the warm air, aging shoulders slightly hunched, she grunted coldly, “Fine.”

I used to be quite close to this woman. I would go to her for advice, to share stories about students. She danced at my wedding and was one of the first colleagues to hold my newborn daughter. For over a year now I have been wondering what I have done to her. Had I put an inexcusable foot wrong? Had I said something I shouldn’t had? Surprisingly, I’m the sort who often says the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. Who would have guessed?

But I have come to the realisation that this not about me. Even if I have said or done something wrong at some point, she could have come to me and asked about it, at the very worst, told me she didn’t appreciate what I had done and even at a stretch, told me off for it. But the reality is, this is not about anything I or anybody else may have said or done. This is about poor leadership. It’s about someone who still plays favourites and who is so overwhelmed by a job she doesn’t really enjoy that she treats those around her poorly.

So, the teacher that I am, I look for lesson in all of this. It’s okay to make mistakes, it’s okay to have moments when you’re not the best at your job, however, it is not okay to alienate and wrong those you work with. After all, Ms UnPC isn’t the only one able to climb ladders...

A Very Incovenient Truth

2011-11-21T06:36:00.000-05:00

If I am to be completely honest, I must admit that I am a judgemental bitch. I have absolutely no qualms about passing judgement on the lives and choices of others. Alongside this lovely facet of my personality is the virtue, or perhaps the failing, of having absolutely no problem letting people know when I believe they have made an error of sorts – regardless of whether or not these choices are actually any of my business.

I know it’s wrong. I know a better person would stand by silently, acknowledge that the choices of others’, even best friends’, are not up for critique. Perhaps if I was a better friend I would be able to simply empathise with those I love, and acknowledge that when they come to me they seek support, not a solution. Unfortunately, I am by nature a seeker of solutions. I have never understood the desire to complain about a situation if you are not going to actually attempt to resolve it. In my mind, if there is an aspect of your life that is not working for you, then by all means have a whinge, but then do something to change it. If you don’t, odds are, whatever it is you are complaining about is actually working for you to some extent.

It angers me to see those I love living lives that I believe are hurting them or perhaps, more accurately, living a life of compromise, missing out on what should be theirs, on the existences they should be able to live, simply because of the failings of the men or women they choose to share their lives with. When I see friends in relationships that fail to provide them the love, care, respect and attention I believe they deserve I feel frustrated and occasionally and no doubt ironically, I even find myself angry at these same friends for accepting a life for themselves that I cannot accept.

I acknowledge that at the base of this issue is an assumption that my friends desire the same sort of lifestyle I aspire to, and rationally I know this may very well not be the case. I try to remind myself that the lives I presume to be hurting them or limiting them or frustrating them may in fact be the lives they desire. Perhaps the reality is, the only one their lives are really frustrating is me.

My judgements are based on the assumption that everyone I know and love has similar values and basic desires to mine. I presume that all those I perceive of being similar to me in some way, also share my belief in the value of owning their own home. I presume that they also seek a partner who supports them emotionally, mentally and financially. My judgements are based on the assumption that all parents I know also believe that education is the most important gift they can ever give their children and that dressing up, putting on a spot of lippy and a pair of killer heels makes every woman feel sexy and better about themselves – even if only for a moment. My judgements are based on the assumption that everyone finds the identical attributes worthy of respect and admiration. I am learning that this is very much not the case.

Hubby, hunched over his computer, working late into the evening to ensure he is good at his job, is not a factor which would cause all wives to flush with love. Some would resent the hours he puts in, the endless discussion which centres on our working lives. Some would say that often we pay more attention to our students than our own biological offspring, and at times, they would be right.

I have many failings, but perhaps one of my greatest is that I assume that what I believe is ‘the right way’ is indeed ‘the right way’. We talk about cultural sensitivity, and how as a global society we, in a more tangible way than ever before are willing and able to embrace and respect the multitudes of traditions, values and beliefs that colour our world. And we do. For those who are visibly different, and reside in a world that is clearly alien to us. I would never dare bring my assumptions to some woman living in a mud-hut in Africa with eleven children and a goat. That would be presumptuous and insensitive. But for some reason I have absolutely no problem imposing these same assumptions on my friends living down the street, around the corner or in the very next suburb.

And so, to those I have judged based on my own assumptions regarding what I believed you should want out of life, I apologise. I promise to try to adopt the old “live and let live” adage. But, I give fair warning, come whinging to me about your life and I will tell you the truth... as I see it.

Kitchen Nightmares

2011-11-18T22:44:00.000-05:00

Hubby considers himself quite the chef, and to be fair he does do the majority of the meal planning, preparation and cooking in the household. While he is obsessed by the Lifestyle Food channel and can watch the likes of Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein for hours, the one small aspect of cheffing life that has not been picked up by his culinary radar is the cleaning of the kitchen. For some inexplicable reason he does not get that good chefs, real chefs, understand that a clean kitchen is a fundamental aspect of the whole cooking thing.

And while I greatly appreciate the home-cooked meals I and our children are served most evenings, the fact that he seems incapable of actually cleaning up after himself drives me insane. He seems to enjoy using every possible pot, saucer and spoon he can find. Oil splatterings on the backsplash are a specific area of expertise, as are vegetable peels left in a heap on the counter. Perhaps he is waiting for them to grow legs and walk themselves over to the rubbish bin. However, keep in mind that even if this miracle were to occur it would only be of limited assistance as the rubbish itself would have to work out a way to take itself out. No matter how full the bin is, as far as Hubby is concerned, "There's still room".

Hubby's cleaning regime consists of shoving whatever can fit into the dishwasher, and whatever can't fit in, he deems to be in need of 'soaking' - code for leaving it filled with water until I get so sick of seeing it there I wash it myself. Hubby has yet to develop the understanding that if you leave a dirty cooking implement lying on the kitchen counter you will at some stage need to actually clean said counter. Cleaning the oven, stove top, microwave, toaster, is, in Hubby's world, an optional extra. Yet, he laughs furiously while witnessing Gordon Ramsey going through shockingly dirty commercial kitchens, totally unaware of the irony.

I am completely aware that in my last post I contended that I am in no way a domestic diva. And I'm not. At 2:01pm on a Saturday afternoon none of the beds in my home are made and 'The Saturday Age' is strewn across the dining room table. My mother is appalled by my lack of interest in cooking an array of traditional Jewish dishes and bemoans the fact that her most valuable treasure - her secret chicken-soup recipe will die with her (mostly because she prefers that to the idea of passing this family secret on to her Irish-Catholic son-in-law). My mother-in-law is just appalled. But that's a whole other story. I stand by the fact that I do not enjoy cleaning out the family fridge or scrubbing the insides of a grease-coated oven. I can think of many activities I would prefer to participate in . But I do these things. Not because I gain any pleasure out of them, but because they have to be done. Hubby just does not see the necessity. In fact, until I raised the issue he was not even aware that toasters have a crumb-tray.

Foxtel programmers and executives, allow me to suggest a new program for the Lifestyle Food channel. I like to call it, 'Clean the Fuck Up After Yourself'. I want to switch on and see Jamie teaching male viewers how to clean the roasting tray after roasting a "pukka" chicken. I want him to explain how leaving the tray filled with greasy water for 17 days to 'soak' is NOT a precursor to cleaning and will have an adverse effect on your sex-life. I want Rick Stein to explain that when one barbecues a whole bunch of shrimp for a Christmas lunch, it's really important to remember to take out the rubbish. And if you fail to remember to do so, it is totally reasonable for your wife to be very upset with you. I want Gordon Ramsey to start doing home visits, telling men who have been taken in by the 'Masterchef' phenomenon that their kitchens are disgusting, liberally using the 'F-Word' as he does so.

Now that is a cooking program I would watch.

Unbounded Domesticity

2011-11-13T22:25:00.000-05:00

Recently I have become friendly with two fellow kinder mums. Both are lovely, honest and genuine women. There is absolutely no bullshit about either of them, and believe me, that is not easy to find at a Jewish day school kindergarten. However, while I value my friendship with both of them, what has become abundantly clear is that compared to both of them I am completely and utterly inadequate in the home-making department.

Domestic Goddess is exactly that. Her two daughters' snacks are always home made and it is absolutely nothing for her to whip up a dozen perfectly pink-iced mini donuts for a play date. She cleans out her pantry and fridge once a week and I have never seen any dirt in her house - unless one of my children has dragged it in. Entertaining guests with an array of dietary restrictions and allergies seems to not phase her one tiny bit as she creates artful gluten-free wraps bursting with yummy fillings. This contrasts greatly with my handing over of a slightly bruised apple with an apologetic smile. I could handle all this if Domestic Goddess did not actually work as well. But she does. Granted, not full-time in the traditional sense, but she is a manager at a large company who handles corporate phone-calls on her mobile with ease while breakfasting with Sunshine Cleaning and myself without dropping a speck of her bagel and skinny hot chocolate on her perfectly pressed suit. Thanks to her flexible job she is able to work into the night, after she has tidied up the entire house, made tomorrow's lunches and put her daughters to bed. Her husband has a busy job of his own and as such all domestic tasks fall firmly to her, and she does them. Not only that, she seems to enjoy them.

Sunshine Cleaning's house is startlingly clean. Seriously. It's so clean it's blinding. And she has kids. Two boys. Twins. She also works. She also maintains a vibrant social life, always going out with friends to dinner, having throngs of guests over, kids over to play with her kids - all with this amazing smile on her face. When I first met her I assumed she must be medicated, but once again I have discovered, that she enjoys doing all these things. She enjoys getting down on the floor and playing pretend with a hoard of four year-olds, she enjoys cutting up fruit and presenting it in a way Donna Hay would be jealous of, she enjoys being a mother and wife and everything that goes with it. Apparently she also really enjoys vacuuming.

Both of these women have pantries that look like some sort of Tupperware Mecca.

Tupperware Mecca

My pantry on the other hand looks like the 'before' shot - half open pasta packets, flour bags closed with random clothes pegs, and of course an assortment of highly processed snacks for hubby to throw into lunchboxes in the morning, because if he were to rely on me to do it, our children would end up going to school with half a bottle of flat diet coke. There is also always onion and garlic skins around. I don't know why and I don't know how. I have learnt to keep my pantry door firmly shut when Domestic Goddess and Sunshine Cleaning visit.

I would love to be like these two women, who live in homes where the beds being made is a rule, rather than the exception. And there are some days when I come close to being somewhat like them, when I manage to throw out that piece of mouldy cheddar that's been lurking at the back of the fridge. But I'm pretty sure I'm not smiling about it. And I'm very sure I'm not enjoying it.

Perhaps this is less about my inadequacies, my inabilities and more about what I choose to expend my energy on. I suppose I could stay up till midnight vacuuming and cleaning out all those bits of onion and garlic skin, but the reality is, I would far rather be watching a DVD with hubby in my less than meticulous bedroom. Sure, it feels great when I know the house is sparkling clean, but with three kids and two parents working full time and just trying to make things work, that particular pleasure is a rarity. So, I'll take advantage of the joys that happen more often - my three-year old daughter sneaking into bed with me at 6am for an early morning cuddle, my ten-year old son kicking my arse at 'Just Dance 2' and my seven-year old telling me I'm the best mum in the world because for a special treat I let him have a chocolate-chip cookie and that half a bottle of flat diet coke for breakfast.

Fantasy Report

2011-11-13T03:25:00.000-05:00

The other night at dinner the Great Pretender mentioned how my recent blogs have been lacking the tales of students I started off with. Recently The Neighbour's Wife has been devoid of cutting remarks about the stupidity of select young people and their parentage. Did this mean that all my students this year had been perfect?

I must admit, I have been lucky this year. Most of my students, particularly my Year 12 bunch, have been absolutely wonderful, a truly beautiful group of young men who have reminded me why I do what I do. However, do not fear. Some of the young ladies I have had the pleasure of encountering this year, while not entirely atrocious, certainly do provide fodder for my devoted readers. And so, it currently being that most hideous of times - report writing time - I have decided to indulge myself and write the report I would really love to pen and send home to a parent... or two.

                                              _____________________

"Blonde Bogan is a very well groomed young lady. She should be - she spends more time surveying her split ends then she does looking at her work. Her technological understanding is of a superior quality, as is demonstrated by her continual perusal of her own image in her Mac's PhotoBooth and her incessant checking of her Facebook account on the brand new iPhone you purchased for your princess. I am sure however that this gift was bestowed upon her after you were informed of her many achievements. Granted, these triumphs have absolutely nothing to do with this subject, as blowing members of the First XVIII at the back of the bus is not explicitly taught in this particular subject, but no doubt this talent will serve her well in future years.

Her writing talents stretch from the "Blonde Bogan loves cock" which she has artistically etched onto her own pencil case, to the "Mrs Math Teacher is a fucking cunt" lovingly carved into her desk. Her creative talents truly know no bounds. This is no doubt owed to the vast amounts of literature she possesses a detailed understanding of, including but not limited to, Jersey Shore, Gossip Girl and the classic Jackass trilogy.

Blonde Bogan is also an exceptional debater. Her most recent debate with a classmate on the topic of "'Oh my god, you are like, so hot!' 'No! You are!'" proved to be a bastion of philosophical thought; Socratic dialogue at its best. Her generalised comments about 'wogs' and 'asians' demonstrate a deep cultural awareness. In particular, her oral presentation on, 'Jesus was white, okay?' showcased her insightful understanding of historiography and the vagaries of religious belief.

What she lacks in subtlety, Blonde Bogan more than makes up for in eloquence. Her recent observation that "There is no such thing as a good looking fat chick" is only surpassed by her inquiry, "What's so bad about having an eating disorder? You get to be, like, super thin!" Her eye-rolling is expert and her inability to keep her legs together despite the brevity of her skirt is the stuff of porn stars.

It has been truly torturous having Blonde Bogan in my class this year and I wish her the very best of luck for a STI-free future."

A-Ha Moment

2011-11-05T23:56:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I had what Oprah would call an "a-ha moment". Well, to be completely honest, it was more of an, "Oh my god, I am so pathetic" moment. I sat in front of Tiffany's (normally a space of serenity) and cried. My credit card had been declined by a smarmy, leggy salesgirl. I had overdrawn the family savings account by $99. I was metaphorically smacked in the face by the very sad fact that my shopping is no longer the occasional dose of retail therapy. It is a full blown addiction.

I am Victor Gruen's dream. I enter a shopping centre and the rest of the world melts away. Faced with the sparkling lights and the shiny, stylish window displays, I can no longer recall the details of what I was meant to be doing that day. Clearly I can also no longer remember the fact that I have no money. Time itself stands still. The thrill of a new purchase is an orgasm. Better than an orgasm. It gives you a high, a thrill nothing else can. And then there is the follow-up, the unpacking of the item once you get home. I used to think that I was the only one who relished this particular moment, but thanks to the wonders of You Tube, I have discovered that the joy of 'unboxing' is not something I alone revel in. The sound of that tissue paper, the decision of where in your wardrobe you will hang your new treasure, the first time time you wear it... There truly is nothing in the world quite like it.

As my friend and fellow shopping enthusiast Design Queen has commented, "You have champagne taste". She's right. Unfortunately I have a cask wine budget. I am an avid reader of 'Vogue' and 'Harper's Bazaar'. I routinely fantasise about buying a $6000 Prada coat, so paying $350 for one at Veronika Maine one seems frugal, insignificant even. I mean, seriously, how is $350 going to buy us a bigger house, or a family holiday? So why not purchase myself a little fleeting joy?

Prada Cotton Blend Coat

But I do not want to be that woman. I do not want to be the woman who ends up putting her family in so much debt, that they lose the house and are compelled to live in their car - especially since my husband's automobile of choice is a 1998 Mitsubishi Magna.

After my cry-fest in front of the world's most famous jewellery store, I came home and handed over my visa and store cards to a quietly frustrated husband. This morning I added up all that I have spent since April 2011 on my addiction. The final tally ladies and gents (minus cosmetics, skin care, undies, stockings, bras, the occasional accessory and other 'necessities') is.... wait for it... $5,357.27. And while I internally excuse myself, knowing full well that my final count is less than the cost of that incredibly cute Prada coat, I also acknowledge that the real cost of my spending is far too great.

While I can pardon myself, blaming an obese mother who could not understand how elastic-waisted jeans never did anything for an adolescent girl's social status, the stark reality is I need to stop. It's going to be a challenge to be a fashion-obsessed non-shopper and honestly, I am not convinced I can do it, but I am convinced that I need to try.

And so, I will attempt to get to December 31st, 2011 without buying any clothing or shoes for myself. As any addict knows, the only way to kick the habit is to tackle it one day at a time. Eight weeks seems achievable. Besides, Boxing Day sales were never really my scene.

Love at first sight...

2011-11-04T04:15:00.001-04:00

Ladies and gents, I am heads over heels in love. And to make it worse, it's that new flush of love period where all you can think about is the object of your affection. An image pops into my head and my heart skips a beat, my loins surge, I melt into a puddle of cliches.

The subject of such devotion?

The new Chelsea Boucle Satchel from Coach

I have already imagined myself, filing me papers in this beauty, slinging it over my shoulder, allowing its subtle sequins to catch the light. Hmmmm... no man has ever aroused such desire...

THAT Line

2011-11-03T06:25:00.005-04:00

Today I said farewell to a group of young men who I will miss a great deal. While there were of course, as with all groups, some individuals less amazing than others, on the whole they were one of the finest cohorts I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.

I fell in love with each of these young men a little bit. I fell in love with their youth, their humour, their energy. I fell in love with the way I felt when I was in their company. And I feel wary about admitting that, knowing full well that suspicions do arise when teachers and their older students become 'too close'. And while I know there was absolutely nothing untoward about my relationship with any of these wonderful young men, I am also aware that for some teachers and their students, THAT line does get crossed.

Let me be the first to state that for an intimate relationship to develop between a student and a teacher is an abuse of power. It is wrong. It should never happen. There is absolutely no excuse and the teacher, as the adult, as the one who holds the balance of power, is totally, completely and utterly responsible for any breach of their professional duty. I would love to say that all teacher-student relationships are pure and innocent and that the suspicions which befall teachers are unjust and a product of media sensationalism. However, I can't say that. I can't say that because THAT line does get crossed. I have seen it happen. And it will continue to happen. And this is why.

The physical differences between an eighteen year old boy and a younger man is negligible in most cases. And when disparities are apparent in their physique it is normally the older man that is on the wrong side of those differences. We are bombarded by the media with images of lust-worthy, washboard stomached men, with chiseled cheekbones covered in designer stubble. And in all honesty, the latest Calvin Klein model bears a far more striking resemblance to the captain of a high school football team than to the man who lies next to me every night farting in his sleep. The same goes for the opposite sex. Eighteen year old girls are, on average, far more physically attractive than a thirty-five year old woman, stomach riddled with stretch-marks, thighs dotted with cellulite and boobs sagging from breast-feeding three children. We are programmed to find that youthful confidence and strength attractive. And let's be honest, no matter how much we love our partners, no matter how devoted and faithful we are, there will always be moments when we just want to fuck someone new, someone different. Not because we no longer love our better-halves, but because we want to fall in lust again. We want that first kiss, that urgency, that desperate, aching need to feel those hands. Just for a moment we want more than the once-a-week, I-suppose-we-should-do-it-because-you'll-have-your-period-next-week sex.

High schools are hot-beds. Hundreds of teenagers, hormones raging. They are places of action, of intensity. High school students are for the most part, creatures of the immediate, living today for today. Many are hedonistic, acutely aware of what the years can do thanks to the images of their parents, and determined to devour as much pleasure as they can. Most of the time the teachers are not part of that. But then comes those blurry lines.

A colleague told me the other day that every high school boy has, at one stage or another, had a fantasy about their female (or in some cases, male) teacher. So there we are, the object of lust. Most who become teachers are not accustomed to occupying the role of the desired. At heart we are nerds, geeks, who often have painful memories of being the sullen semi-goth at the back of the classroom, ignored by the opposite sex, unless it was for the purposes of torture or torment. And in some cases we are vulnerable, vulnerable to our own weaknesses, our own desires, vulnerable to the charms of a good looking young man paying us greater attention than we've had in years from our partners.

But that is the line. Crossing over that very fine but very precise line is where a good teacher can go bad. It is one thing to be flattered, to blush, to even at the very extreme have a fleeting thought of 'what if', but stepping over that line is a whole other story.

Ruby Slippers

2011-10-31T22:50:00.002-04:00

I am in the midst of some serious work, preparing thirty young men for what many consider to be the most important examination of their young lives. And yet, I cannot concentrate. Sure, it could have something to do with the fact that at 1:30pm I have already downed three bottles of Hoegaarden, but I actually believe it has more to do with the fashion fever that descends on Melbourne this time every year.

I have a confession to make. This teacher and mother is a complete and utter shop-a-holic. I have the capacity to spend a mortgage repayment on a handbag and not only not think twice about it, but also rationally and logically (in my world) justify it. And so, in my drunken haze, and to avoid marking one more Language Analysis, I present you with the most recent (and possibly entirely unnecessary purchases) of the Neighbour's Wife.

An uber-cute Spencer & Rutherford number. Great size and awesome summer colours.

I Love Billy
Great price ($79.95) and too cute. Not to mention ultra-comfy.

Nine West
I love orange!
Thick elastic bands also means summer comfort when your feet start to swell.

Wittner.
I admit it, I did not need these. But the colour! It's like having your feet wrapped in a Tiffany's box.

And so, while the truly fashionable and fabulous get to sip Moet and watch the pretty horses (and I don't mean SJP) run by, I sit, still in my pyjamas, listening to the musical wonder that is the Dora the Explorer theme song and trying to explain via email why with less that 48 hours to go to the exam, it's really worth starting to pay attention, and dream about all the chic places I can wear my new purchases.

Somehow, I don't the the English exam will cut it.

A good wine

2011-07-21T03:18:00.000-04:00

This afternoon I had to put a wine glass in the dishwasher. Granted, this is not the most taxing job I have ever had to do. I’m aware that there are women across Africa compelled to walk great distances carrying water on their heads in order to ensure their families do not perish of dehydration and in light of this fact, my complaint may seem comparatively bourgeois. However, there is a reason why placing this wine glass in the top rack of my dishwasher has me so peeved. There is a reason why I seethe at the injustice of that relatively small act.

The reason is this. That glass was my husband’s wine glass. That glass was the one he drank his Merlot out of at last night’s dinner. That was the glass I reminded him to put away last night before I went to bed – after doing most of the other dinner dishes. That was the glass I commented on this morning, before I went to work, wondering why he could get it to the kitchen counter, but found the extra foot to the dishwasher such a vast, insurmountable distance to cross. I was quickly told he would “get to it”. I should have known then. “I’ll get to it” is the kiss of death as far as Hubby is concerned. It is a blatant assurance that he will never, ever do the job in question.

At the beginning of relationships we ignore our mate’s small flaws, their idiosyncrasies. These attributes may even be part of their charm. However, over time these minor aspects of their personality can begin to mildly irritate. They can in fact lead to long-held grudges and at times quite vocal arguments. Eventually we may find ourselves frothing at the mouth over a Riedel crusted with red wine sediment.

I’ve often contemplated what it is that ultimately tears a marriage asunder. I wonder how often it is the little things that takes a loving couple and turns them into bitter and spiteful archenemies, willing to break any and all moral codes in order to gain their revenge. How often is it the dirty socks and undies abandoned on the bedroom floor, the wet towel dumped on the floor, the snooty tissues left on the bedside table, the breakfast dishes forsaken in the dining room? How often is it the incidentals that finally cause a partnership to dissolve into a vindictive slinging match? How often does one too many dirty wine glasses being left on the kitchen countertop lead to lawyers being called in and a breakout of the age-old battle of “this is mine, that is yours”?

So I advocate not letting those little things build up. Don’t stifle the resentment. Express it. Tell him he has the housekeeping skills of a blind Viking slumlord. Don’t pick up those dirty socks and undies silently. Call him a pig and throw the offending y-fronts at his head. Get all Medea on his arse for failing to pick up his own wet towel. You’re not being a bad wife – you’re saving your marriage from potential disaster.

I’m not sure however that Hubby would agree with my advice. There is at least one thing Hubby and I can agree on. Every now and again we all deserve a good wine… Or whine…

I'm Sick

2011-05-31T04:09:00.000-04:00

I’m sick of picking up after other people.
I’m sick of being the only one in a house of five able to scrub toilets and showers and wash out bathtubs.
I’m sick of the juggle – of working out who need to pick up and drop off which kid where and when. Less planning goes into a NASA launch than into your average Monday at my house.
I’m sick of our bank account running out of money on the day I need a haircut.
I’m sick of obnoxious, overly-coiffed sixteen year old girls who think that the world begins and ends with them and that they have the right to treat those they deem less attractive, less popular, less anything as sub-humans. A Year 11 girl justified her indifference to the suffering in the world with, “If it doesn’t affect me, why should I care?” I wanted to punch her in the face.
I’m sick of working for people who are no more intelligent or capable than myself, but who are far better at politicking. I’m sick of bad people managers being put in charge of large groups of staff and then wondering why there are staffing issues. I’m sick of there being so few female role models in the workplace – women who successfully juggle motherhood and positions of responsibility without being a complete bitch – mostly to other women.
I’m sick of idiots running countries.
I’m sick of people claiming that global warming is a myth. They claim many of the events we have seen over the recent past are bound to happen every hundred years or so. Funny how these once-in-a-hundred-years events have all been happening at once.
I’m sick of stay-at-home mums with all their kids in school or day-care complaining about how busy they are.
I’m sick of explaining to my husband how only having sex once a month will result in him only lasting 90 seconds.
I’m sick of advertisements and shop signs with incorrect punctuation. I’m sick of representatives of educational institutions and their various volunteer groups sending out emails without even bothering to do a simple spell-check.
I’m sick of everything in my wardrobe being stained, ripped or missing a button. I’m sick of kids with Nutella all over themselves rubbing their face in my white quilt cover.
I’m sick of ‘Home Beautiful’ telling me that these $4 million dollar homes they feature are full of “vintage finds”. I’m also sick of replica Eames rockers, tulip tables and all other manner of design frauds. I’m sick of white kitchens and faux-Hamptons in the middle of Melbourne. I’m sick of French provincial and anything whitewashed. And people stupid enough to paint their hardwood floors white should be shot.
I’m sick of working hard and getting nowhere. I’m sick of the fact that because my husband is so good at his job he will never be promoted because they can’t find anyone to do what he currently does.
I’m sick of running out of money three weeks into every month. I’m sick of the growing credit-card debt I can’t control. I’m sick of the fact that what is on my VISA is school fees and kinder fees, health insurance and OT payments.
I’m sick of marking papers till midnight and then being told how lucky I am to have all those holidays. I’m sick of the world not realising what teachers do and how hard it can be. I’m sick of lazy, shit teachers giving the rest of us a bad name.
I’m sick of not having a room of my own. Virginia Woolf claimed eighty-two years ago that women need space. She was right. Fuck open plan living.
I’m sick of my two sons wrestling each other at every opportunity. I’m told this is normal behaviour for two males. And we still let men run the world.
I’m sick of sports-people being declared role models. Has Shane Warne and Brendon Fevola taught us nothing?
I’m sick of lazy people who believe the world owes them a living. I’m sick of people who are totally capable of getting off their arses and going to work, sitting home watching daytime television and collecting government benefits. I’m sick of people making excuses for themselves and others. Suck it up and get a fucking job.
Mostly, I’m sick of feeling undervalued and unappreciated. I’m sick of allowing this lack of appreciation to impact on my own self-confidence. I’m sick of the overwhelming self-loathing and the constant fear of being exposed as a fraud, a fear based solely upon how I perceive others view me. I’m sick of feeling compelled to constantly question my own abilities, and I’m sick of my need for external positive reinforcement. I want to be the strong, independent woman I was always promised I would be.
I guess mostly, on some level, I’m sick of me…

The Learning Curve

2010-12-16T21:42:00.000-05:00

The most amazing part of being a teacher is what you learn.

Last Monday the VCE results came out. Text messages went into overdrive, parents breathed collective sighs of relief and graduates all over Victoria jumped for joy and shed tears of disappointment. I was awake by 6:04am, waiting for the flood of text messages letting me know that either all the hard work had been worthwhile or that I should seek alternative career options.

Some students did better than others. In general the reality is, the more work a student puts in, the higher the grade. However, natural talent, god-given brains and simple DNA also play a part. Salt of the Earth is a wonderful young man. He was not blessed with a flair for writing and he comes from a non-English speaking home. This year he did particularly poorly in his first assessment task. However, instead of adopting the always popular "Fuck it" attitude - something which I am an expert in - he decided to grab the proverbial reigns and spent the rest of the 2010 academic year pushing himself to do better. He listened to every bit of constructive criticism and took on board every suggestion. In the end however, he was disappointed with that little number which told him where he ranked in the subject.

For most students, particularly private school students this is the cue to start the tantrum. "My teacher was an idiot. I worked so hard. I clearly wasn't prepared properly. She never did this, she did too much of that. My school sux..." and on it goes. And I must admit, I felt guilty. I kept thinking about how I could have prepared Salt of the Earth better, what advice I should have given him that I failed to. I so desperately wanted this tenacious young man to succeed, I assumed the fact that he didn't get the score we both wanted him to must have been my fault.

Knowing he had been disappointed by the result on Monday, I checked up on him yesterday. He told me he had also been going over the year in his head, trying to work out where he had gone wrong, what he could have done better. And then he thought about 2009. And then he thought about 2008 and all those years that came before 2010. He acknowledged that while he worked his arse off in 2010, in the years leading up to it he had pretty much ignored the subject. He recognised that considering he only really worked for 9 months, it was a tad unreasonable to expect a better result than the one he achieved.

Salt of the Earth you are an amazingly mature young man. You see the bigger picture and your place it. You don't accept excuses but you're willing to see the reason and acknowledge the cause.

Salt of the Earth you have taught me a great deal. And let's face it, you were in the top 10% of the state. Not bad for 9 months work.

Merry Christmakkah Marilyn

2010-12-03T23:40:00.001-05:00

So apparently my husband loves me. He really does. He just needs me to change a teensy little bit. All he needs is for me to never scream or yell, never criticise or nag, be consistent with every thought, word and deed I express, never complain or say or do anything that may result in conflict and never bring up the past. Above all I must always be happy. That shouldn't be too hard, should it? Hopefully I'll be getting a lobotomy for Christmakkah and then all will be very Stepford indeed.

Hubby believes he has cornered the market on being reasonable and rational. He sees himself as the bar that we should each aspire to reach. Gosh I wish I was more like him. Emotional repression looks like so much fun. The key to being reasonable, I have discovered, is never raising your voice. You can be as cruel and as emotionally distant as you want as long as you don't yell. Maybe that was why Hitler got such bad press. All that yelling at those rallies was certain to eventually offend those genteel WASPs. If you're going to murder millions, at least have the decency to do so quietly, thank you very much.

I, like most other Jews, was raised in a house of yellers. My mother yelled, my father yelled, my sister yelled, I yelled. And guess what? We all still yell. And I don't think that's such a bad thing. I don't believe that because I will occasionally raise my voice that I am a bad person. I don't believe that yelling equals irrational. Yelling means, "LISTEN TO ME GODDAMNIT! I AM SICK OF SAYING THE SAME SHIT TO THE SAME PEOPLE OVER AND OVER AGAIN. YOU MUST TURN YOUR ATTENTION AWAY FROM RIVER COTTAGE AND PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT I AM SAYING" or something like that.

According to hubby his wishes for me to change reside in his desire for us to be 'happy'. And that's not a bad thing. But the reality is you're not always happy and at those times I want honesty and truth. I want anger and sadness and whatever else is making you feel miserable. I want the mess of life and emotions, with all the tears and tantrums that come with it. I don't want civilised cups of tea on a white linen couch. I want the rollercoaster. I am the rollercoaster. And I want that to be okay.

Marilyn Monroe once said, "I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." Well I say, Merry Chistmakkah to you Marilyn! I suspect underneath all that coy, heavy lidded flirtatiousness was one hell of a yeller. I suspect that you too found that in the end men wanted not the woman you really were, but their version of you. The toned down, somewhat muted and, in all probability, far less entertaining Marilyn. I hope you never allowed them to press that mute button. I hope you saved your best for you and for those who truly accepted all of you. I hope that in the end you told the men in your life who couldn't handle you that it was their weakness that was the problem, not your strength. I hope you told them to take their reason, rationality and refinement and stick it up their incredibly tight arses.

But then again, look where you ended up.

Style Alert

2010-08-10T02:25:00.000-04:00

Recently I have noticed the emergence of a new trend. Actually, it’s not entirely new. To be honest, it is a fashion that has been around for quite a while, but it has recently made a big comeback. Huge. Unfortunately, it’s not a style that suits most. Ladies and gents, the latest craze that seems to have taken the world by storm is that gaudy, flashy, over-the-top, but nonetheless seemingly irresistible touch of narcissism.

Now while I believe that there are many out there who actually need an extra-helping of self-love, I have encountered a few of late who may want to consider taking a step back and pondering others. You know, just for a moment or two.

Narcissist No 1 – Manic Fairy is actually quite a lovely woman; unfortunately the person she is most lovely towards is herself. She has one child. She does not work. Her husband does not work. How these people manage to put food on the table and keep a roof above their heads is one of our universe’s greatest mysteries. Granted, Manic Fairy has been through some tough times lately and she is quick to acknowledge that she has survived in part thanks to her friends. Manic Fairy is vibrant and beautiful. She is one of those individuals who can make a friend in a room full of strangers. I think if they had got her to have a quick chat with Saddam she probably could have managed to convince him to reconsider the whole oppression of his people plan and be well, just a little bit nicer. And so, when Magic Fairy asks you for a favour it’s hard to say ‘no’. Well, at least it’s hard for me to say ‘no’. And so she asks, and I do, and she asks and I do, and she asks and I… you get the picture.

The last time she asked me to have her child for a day I really didn’t want to say ‘yes’ but it’s hard to say, “No, I can’t help you out because my life is really hectic at the moment, and besides my kid hates your kid.” And so, using the wonder that is a passive-aggressive response that generations of Jewish women have perfected, I replied, “Sure. I mean I have a mountain of work to do, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.” I’ll be honest, I was expecting a “don’t worry about it” or at the very least, “if you have my kid Saturday, I’ll take yours Sunday”. But alas, Manic Fairy simply thanked me for my offer and wished me the best of luck with my work.

On reflection though, the biggest issue with Manic Fairy might be me. Her highly evolved sense of me, me, me may just be here to teach me how to say “NO!” something I think many women feel quite frightened of – myself included. Her responses make me consider whether it is in fact a lack of self-love on my part that is the real problem.

But, not all narcissists are the same.

Narcissist No 2 - Now, I have acknowledged Manic Fairy is lovely and beautiful, friendly and engaging. Little Miss It’s-All-About-Me is not. In fact, when I first met Little Miss IAAM my gut told me to stay away from the bitch. I need to learn to listen to my gut.

Little Miss IAAM is one of the most self-absorbed human beings to walk the planet. She does nothing for anyone unless she is able to tell the world how amazing she is for doing it. This is a woman for whom publicity is key. She regularly tells people how many friends she has on Facebook – yes, I’m serious. You didn’t think people actually did that, did you? Her mission in life this year has been to capture the highly un-coveted role of Parent Association President. She has yet to realise it’s all hers – mainly because nobody else wants it. Her tactical plan of how best to secure such a lofty position is to regale all who will listen with tales of her greatness. “I’ve managed to get such amazing prizes for the raffle…”, “I’ve convinced someone to give us this and that..”, “I just don’t stop…” She’s right. She doesn’t stop. Poor girl, hasn’t anyone told her that all she needed to do to be elected Pres is put her hand up?

I am just disappointed that no network has realised what an amazing reality television show this woman’s life would make. Think about it, you could have the close-up footage of her public, grandiose promises and then a quick cut to the scene of the promise unfulfilled and her looking on, totally blank faced. What promise? Huh? Have I told you how popular I am lately? No, really, have I told you?

This woman actually had a fund-raising event postponed until she returned from holiday in the honest belief that only she could fill a hall. “You know, I am quite social…” Lost for words doesn’t even cover it.

This kind of woman angers me to the core. There are hundreds, thousands, possibly millions of women out there suffering from a lack of confidence. Women who continually perceive their best to be just not damn good enough. Perhaps it is women like Little Miss It’s-All-About-Me who have stolen the self-love. They are hording it, keeping it locked in a box somewhere while us ordinary women lie back at night and ponder every mistake, faux pas, and possible fuck up we have made that day.

A little bit of self-love is a great thing. It’s something most of us need more of. But I guess it’s kind of like wearing something bright and garish. A touch of something bold brings you to life, makes you stand out for all the right reasons. Like all other fashions though, too much ‘me’ and eventually you’ll be thrown into a garbage bag destined for the Salvo bin.

Zero Tolerance

2010-05-24T23:10:00.001-04:00

You may have already noticed that I'm not your lollipops and sunshine kind of girl. Recently I have endured a spate of attempting – quite purposefully – to be more... well... 'happy' I guess is the right word. I decided to endeavour to constantly see the positive – in people, in situations, in my life as a whole. And this exercise was certainly useful. I discovered I have far more choices than I thought were available to me. I learnt that I am in the right profession – for the moment anyway – and if I want a change there are options. I took up weekly exercising with two friends to try the whole 'healthy body, healthy mind' shtick. My husband and I enrolled our eldest in a different school for the upcoming academic year rather than leaving him in a place that I know in my heart of hearts is no longer the right place for him. I have a workman coming over this afternoon to give us a quotation on converting our never-used garage into a kid-zone so hubby and I can have more peace. I am not caught or stuck. My life is, to a large extent, what I make of it.

However, at base, I am not a positive, silver lining in every cloud chick. I am sarcastic, cynical and it takes me a while to trust anyone. I do envy those women who have that magic charisma, the ones who everyone loves, most often born out of them being nice to everyone. I am not nice. I'm not mean (most of the time), but I don't think anyone would ever describe me as 'nice'. The one attribute I have always thought I possessed however, is tolerance. I consider myself to be quite a tolerant individual – in part thanks to my own children and in part thanks to the students I have taught over the years. I have taught sixteen year old convicted rapists, believing that everyone makes poor choices at some point in their life and we all deserve a second chance. I have friends who still drive around in a car with 'Kevin 07' stickers plastered across the back and those who are actually considering voting for Abbott. Having a younger son who is now officially 'on the spectrum' has made me amazingly tolerant of personal ticks. My husband is, at this very moment, donating sperm in an effort to impregnate his lesbian sister's partner, with my blessings. So on the whole, I consider myself a pretty tolerant human being.

That being said, there is one thing that I have zero tolerance for – stupidity. No matter how hard I try I simply can't abide it. Stupidity is not making a mistake – we all do that. Stupidity is continuing to make the same mistake over and over and over and over again.

Let me tell you the story about a principal of a very small school – a school desperate to build numbers. And let me tell you about her reaction to the current President of the Parents Association when she asked said principal if it was possible to give parents seven days notice for any upcoming events in which their children were performing so parents could endeavour to be there. This request came as the result of multiple occasions in which parents were notified the night before of a student performance the following morning. This was not a new problem. This was an issue that had been discussed many times over recent years. Said principal did not respond to an email requesting this. She did however respond in 37 minutes to an email from this same woman informing the school that her eldest son would not be returning to the school in 2011. When the woman approached her personally the principal blamed everyone else – it was this person, that person, the situation, the way it was handled by others, she had no choice, blah, blah blah. In the end the parent was forced to walk away saying, "Forget it. It doesn't really matter." This woman said this because she realised it didn't matter what she said and how many times she said it – the fact is this principal is an idiot. She is an idiot for not valuing her parent body as a whole, but playing favourites to an elite few. She is an idiot for making it abundantly clear why she is such a poor leader – good leaders don't blame their underlings, they inspire those working for them to do better next time. She is an idiot for crystallising for this woman why she is pulling her eldest son out of the school and making her wonder why she is keeping the other two in.

Do I wish I was able to be more tolerant of the many morons who litter our world? Certainly. But I told you, I'm just not that nice.

Let the Sunshine In

2010-02-09T03:52:00.001-05:00

Recently friends and I have become increasingly intolerant of a fellow Grade 3 mother who a fellow blogger has aptly named 'Helicopter Mum'. Now, as a teacher I have certainly encountered my fair share of insane parentals. There was the couple who elected to throw an A-Grade tantrum complete with threats to my personal physical safety if their beloved little boy did not achieve a specific score in the subject I was lucky enough to teach their equally insane offspring. On the other side of the spectrum was the mother who decided that the best way to communicate her passion for her son to achieve a perfect score was to hold my hand through an entire Parent Teacher Interview - just a tad awkward. There was also the mother who looked deep into my eyes and declared, "My son tells me EVERYTHING..." – a little creepy considering she was referring to a seventeen year-old.

So, while I have witnessed bouts of over-protectiveness from a range of parents in my professional life, I am now coming face-to-face with them in my personal life as well. And let me just say these sort of people drive me nuts. I firmly believe they have much to answer for – raising a generation of insipid, mollycoddled, scared of their own shadow, where's my mummy, tantrum throwing, overgrown babies being the first charge. I am a big believer that in 99% of cases kids will bounce back from whatever is thrown at them as long as they have a strong and stable foundation. Most of the time our children are a hell of a lot more resilient than we are and certainly a lot more resilient than many give them credit for being. This particular Grade 3 mother would disagree vehemently. She sees protecting her children from this big, scary world as her most holy of missions and in the process of fulfilling her destiny, she has been driving me (and many others) progressively insane.

Now, perhaps this is my own fault to a certain extent. I was warned. Many attempted to tell me that this well-meaning, non-aggressive and incredibly vague woman was in fact completely and utterly intolerable. Let me be clear – Helicopter Mum is not a bad person. I do believe that she really does want the best for her children and for those around her. She is very vague – so vague that for years I assumed she was constantly stoned. I now realise she is just really slow. But while I find this frustrating, I cannot condemn her for this flaw alone. I can however condemn her for being the most depressing human being on the planet. For a hippie, she lets in very little sunshine. Helicopter Mum focuses constantly on the negatives – the school we send our children to is "very ordinary", the art teacher isn't creative enough, the classroom teacher in Grade 2 was too lenient and the Grade 3 teacher is too harsh, blah, blah, blah. Her daughter is interested in going to summer camp and she's trying to work out a way to stay at the campsite over the course of the week because Precious "won't cope on her own". Precious will cope fine. Precious is actually an awesome kid, surprisingly well-adjusted despite the insane smothering. Helicopter Mum is the one who wouldn't cope.

However what I am beginning to realise is the helicopter phenomenon begins long before the child enters the school gate. Recently friends have had their first child. Well, they say they have. I cannot confirm this fact because neither I, my husband, nor most of our friends have as yet laid eyes on the baby in question. A lovely mutual friend was recently blessed with "a window of between five and ten minutes" with which to come and visit the newborn. Translation: Drop by and hand over the pressie. Now leave. I would like to officially christen this particular new mother Vapid Princess. Apparently, she has found the stress of moving into her new McMansion so overwhelming that she finds basic hospitality simply beyond her. Is it the fear someone will breathe on Vapid Princess II? Break her? Or might a visitor mistakenly drop crumbs on her custom made shabby chic white linen couch? Has, Vapid Princess in fact had her little bundle of joy without reading the fine print of the parenting manual – you know the bit that says having children is a messy business, filled with vomit and shit and lots of crumbs on your all white-interior. If, at the age of less than one month VPII is being shielded from the horrors of the real world what hope does she have?

But I really do wonder, who are these helicopter parents protecting with all their hovering? Is it really their children? Or is it themselves? By claiming to be 'protecting' their young ones are they really just attempting to legitimise wanting to keep their own heads in the clouds? Is it in fact these parents who are terrified of the real world?

Being a parent is scary. There are so many variables out there that one cannot control, things that can potentially hurt and harm those little people we love so much. But hovering doesn't cause those potential dangers to evaporate. The world can be scary. But it can also be an amazing, exciting place full of infinite possibilities. Helicopter parents need to think about what their hovering is really shielding their child from. Often, all that hovering simply prevents young people from seeing that bright blue sky above their own heads.

Chanel Bikini

2010-01-30T05:43:00.001-05:00

Today I met a woman who taught me what I probably already knew – that I'm a judgemental bitch who more often than not doesn't appreciate what she has.

The fam and I went to a nearby beach for the day. It hadn't been an easy morning. Hubby and I had been fighting over something incredibly stupid – I'd tell you what it was if it had been significant enough to remember. It was more one of those fights that are the result of the stress of just being an adult who is not a gazillionaire. The stress of going back to work and coming to face to face with the very real fact that you are "just a teacher". Recognising that the mortgage is eating up so much of your combined income that the much coveted en suite is looking more out of reach than ever. Understanding in some vague way that you are really only a couple of steps away from what used to be called "poverty" (now referred to as "living on credit") but nonetheless spending money you don't have in a pathetic attempt to make you feel better – even for a moment. The stress of knowing that your eldest son is probably not attending the best school for him, but the decision to actually remove him is just too hard. The stress of mother-in-laws and sisters and their endless capacity for pissing people off.

So, by the time we actually got to the beach I was already emotionally worn out. And there they were. The three of them. The thin, leggy blonde with skin that revealed a life of endless beachside holidays (or a really good solarium) in her black Chanel bikini (do people actually buy those?), her dark, muscled, handsome hubby who clearly has the time and the inclination to wake up early to meet his personal trainer, and their four-year-old little princess with her golden curls. I just knew there was a Range Rover with tinted windows parked in the car park. In short the perfect, gorgeous, magazine proof family. Total pukeville.

Princess Golden Curls quickly befriends my little princess, despite my little girl's very unprincess-like peanut butter smeared face, a head full of sand and a pair of little swimmers we all know are filled with more than just the clear blue water of the ocean. And so I am forced to come face to face with Mrs Chanel Bikini. The diamond ring on her wedding finger is bigger than my right butt cheek and worth more than my house. She is sporting the newest Gucci sunglasses and the gusts of wind which were blowing my hair into a freakish "do" seemed to be passing directly over her, not touching even a single blonde strand.

I admit, I assumed Mrs Chanel Bikini would be obnoxious. I assumed she would look down on me in my tatty cheesecloth skirt and old singlet. But the truth is, she was none of that. She was, despite the perfect packaging, a friendly and genuine person. She was incredibly open and forthcoming, so forthcoming that she revealed that she and Mr Muscle had been trying to conceive a second child for the past two years and were now becoming quite desperate. She wistfully told me of her desire to give Princess Golden Curls a little brother or sister as my younger son ran screaming into the waves. She looked on as my eldest son held his younger sister's hand and helped her navigate the shells and seaweed that littered the sand. For the first time I looked at a woman dressed in Chanel and felt nothing but shame for all I had.

I hope Mrs Chanel Bikini is able to give Princess Golden Curls an equally beautiful sibling. I really do hope that she and Mr Muscle are able to expand their perfect family and that they raise those gorgeous children to be as honest and genuine as their mother. And I hope that one day I wear a diamond as big as my right butt cheek.

Auld Lang Syne

2009-12-28T22:57:00.000-05:00

I love New Year's Eve. There are very few worldwide events that I enjoy. As a Jew, Easter and Christmas have never really done much for me (other than the whole decorating aspect - I could so get into that aspect of Christ's little bday party!). After marrying a nice Christian boy, I discovered Christmas actually means painful get-togethers with people I would rather drown than drink with, which made it even worse. It's not only religious based events that repel me. Hubby always works on Cup Day and thus 'the race that stops the nation' just means babysitting duty for me. I loathe the Olympics and resent the bad television we miss in order to watch some eleven year old girl jumping around with a ribbon. How is that sport? I have thus far avoided planting trees on a specific day allocated by some committee, and refuse to help clean-up Australia. After all, where is everyone when it's time to clean-up my house? As a self-confessed shopaholic the one day of the year I abstain from this holiest of ventures is Boxing Day. As the flocks are bussed in to rifle through crap from fourteen years ago that has been ceremoniously dumped on the most convenient trestle table, I maintain my distance from Melbourne's shopping meccas and give my Visa a well-deserved rest.

But New Year's Eve is different. It is the one time you feel like the whole world has permission to PARTY. I like to think that even the most uptight, buttoned down, repressed individuals on the planet are gettin' down and filling their cars with cartons of their favourite beer. Good cheer? Christmas dinners with Great Aunt Fay complaining about "kids these days" and then falling asleep on the couch as cousin Tiffany accuses everyone at the table of conspiring to make her fat, simply can't compare with the chance New Year's Eve provides for us all, at least in some small way, to start again. This year, to celebrate what I believe is the world's greatest annual event, Hubby and I have decided to host a kid-friendly bash - complete with mirror balls (I can't resist party kitsch!), kids treasure hunt, ice-cream sundae bar and a resolution tree.

Now, Hubby and I differ enormously on the whole resolution thing. I see it as a potentially sacred event. He sees it as an opportunity to make incredibly humorous remarks like, "I promise to drink more beer in 2007". I truly believe the contemplation needed to decide on one's New Year's resolution promotes the kind of self-analysis everyone needs occasionally. New Year's Eve allows individuals to face their weaknesses and attempt to overcome them. It is an opportunity for self-reflection and momentary honesty about the person we are and the person we wish to become.

I have many weaknesses - many, many, many weaknesses. And to say I will address them all in this New Year would be unrealistic. There is however one aspect of my nature that I would like to, ahem, 'work on'. I'm not a great friend. I try to be, but the bottom line is, I'm not. I get easily sidetracked by other aspects of my life, as I think many of us do. Family, work, the house and let's not forget me, me and me. Now, up until recently this has never been a huge problem because until recently I was blessed (or cursed - not sure which) with rather average friends who pretty much operated the same way I do. I'll call you when I need you, which may or may not coincide with when you need me. They were, and too a large extent, still are, individuals who place themselves and their interests on a plane high above anybody else's and thus you feel comfortable and quite frankly, completely entitled to do likewise.

But over the last few years I have come to know a number of women who deserve far better than what I have been giving. They are honest and generous and I truly know I could call them at any time for any reason. I have shed many of my old friends, making room for those who accept me even without make-up. I can be honest with them when things aren't perfect, when the bank-balance isn't as healthy as I would like it to be. I can tell them when I feel down, or tired or when I'm just not coping with everything that life throws at us. I can go to them when I doubt myself for some much needed bolstering. Around them I don't always have to be confident and on top of it all. They see the fraying edges and love me despite them. They are who I now refer to as "Friends I Don't Have To Clean For".

So in 2010 I say to hell with Auld Lang Syne. In 2010 I resolve to be a better friend to those who I know and love now. I resolve to text less and call more, to resist the urge to lie and say all is great. I resolve to gossip less and be truthful more, to recognise that friends are of far greater value than what the boss thinks of you. I resolve to stop worrying about those who have proven time and time again that they are not good friends and instead focus on being a better friend myself.

Happy New Year.

The Look?

2009-11-28T22:47:00.000-05:00

So here I am, minding my own business, enjoying a mid-morning cup of coffee and flicking through today's Sunday Life magazine. Since its revamp the Sunday Life has been a bit touch-and-go. It's having a little bit of trouble deciding on its new identity. Is it, as it proclaims to be The Sunday Age Magazine? Or is it perhaps The Sunday Age Magazine for Women Between the Ages of 25-40 Who Have an Enormous Disposable Income and Enjoy Being Patronised? Alternatively, it has crossed my mind that it is simply a 45 page advertising feature. Nonetheless, solid mindless fodder when your two-year-old has scribbled all over the Good Weekend's Samurai Sudoku.

According to one Ms Thelma McQuillan on page 35 of this week's Sunday Life, "one of summer's hottest trend is the new playsuit". Let me state this once and let me be VERY clear - unless you happen to be over six feet tall and a size 2-4 there is NOTHING remotely "hot" about a playsuit. As its very name suggest, a playsuit is appropriate for one thing and one thing only - playing. When you're three years old. If you ask me, the very idea of suggesting that grown-up women don clothing appropriate for toddlers playing in the sandpit is a little creepy.

I don't care of Ms McQuillan claims that this one-piece wonder is "super-versatile". For all of you out there contemplating the $395 Ginger & Smart disaster pictured, ask yourself is this is honestly what your life needs right now. McQuillan suggests adding "heels and jewels" to turn the "super-versatile" playsuit into instant evening wear. Is she serious? No item heralded as the fashion of tomorrow should require a woman to totally undress in order to sit on the toilet.

"The Look"? I think not.

Lights and Peanut Butter Crusts

2009-11-13T22:36:00.001-05:00

I need to know.
I simply must know what makes men so incredibly and unbelievably stupid. Before my male readers take an oath never to read this blog again, you should be aware that this is a genuine attempt to help my very female self understand why it is that what seems so very basic to those of us born sans penis, our male counterparts struggle to comprehend.

Hubby is what I would consider to be an intelligent man. He can explain the minutia of Cold War relations and actually understands – as much as anyone can - Obama's plan for health care reform. However, despite having the intellect to be able to tell a good Brezhnev joke and know why it's funny, he cannot understand why leaving fourteen lights on when you leave the house is a bad thing. Nor can he get his head around the fact that, for the most part, if you want your two year-old daughter to put her peanut-butter sandwich crusts into the bin, you will have to TELL her to do so. Hubby also struggles to grasp the concept that Little Princess will often neglect to inform you that she has mashed those lovely sandwich crusts into the dining room carpet. He believes the highly complex excuse "I didn't see it" is sufficient to acquit him of all charges. Further, he truly believes it is I who am being unreasonable. Expecting him to look either up or down is clearly a mark of my always too high demands.

But Hubby truly excels himself every time his mother is in town. For some reason men who are for the most part, able to function on a normal (albeit male) level are thrown into a spin the moment a ditzy (dyed) blonde who happened to have given birth to them comes into the picture. Now it wouldn't be nice to refer to his mother as Useless-WASP-Who-Has-Never-Contributed-Anything-To-Society-Other-Than-Keeping-Her-Home-Dust-Free, so instead she shall be named Mommy Dearest. Mommy Dearest has never worked. In fact, she believes working is "demeaning" – her words. Mommy Dearest had two children 5 years apart because she couldn't possibly have coped with having more than one at home at a time. Hubby's memories of his childhood include washing his hands and watching Mommy Dearest vacuum – a lot. When our eldest son was born Hubby was astounded to discover that it was okay for children and their mothers to be seen in public and they in fact did not have to always be at home in the throws of domestic bliss. Mommy Dearest washes all the towels and linen in her home every day. In my honest opinion Mommy Dearest has some serious issues.

Mommy Dearest can also be a bit of a bitch. After two days in a car listening to endless rounds of Wiggles music, punctuated by the always loved "Are we there yet?", to visit MD and her new husband, who shall henceforth be known as Sleazoid Nazi (a whole other story), Mommy Dearest enquired what our plans were for dinner. Hubby was off to a Bucks Night to catch up with old school buddies and so it was just me and the kids (in a hotel room, because we couldn't possibly stay in her three bedroom, two bathroom, three living areas home – "Simply not enough room" she claimed, with a straight-face). When I said I had no plans as yet, MD helpfully informed me that there was a supermarket just down the road from where we were staying. Thanks. You're awesome.

But the part that really pisses me off is that MD has zero interest in seeing her grandchildren. She does of course, for precisely 90 minutes every time she comes to Melbourne. At some stage she must have been told that 90 minutes is the minimum amount of time you can visit family and then leave without seeming rude. But I know even these visits are not so much to see the kids, but more so she can report back to her parochial, gossiping friends that yes, she too has seen her grandchildren. All her friends are doing it, and the only thing worse that having to spend time with noisy, sticky children, would be not doing what all your friends are doing. Although she still can't for the life of her understand why my five year old human hurricane doesn't want to sit and have a cup of tea and a nice chat with his nanna. Go figure.

And yet, despite acknowledging that he doesn't like his mother, doesn't respect her, hates spending time with her and has to drink a double scotch just to get through a ten minute phone conversation with her, Hubby will still attempt to move heaven and earth to make sure Mommy Dearest gets what Mommy Dearest wants when she wants it. I, who have stood by him when we had nothing, ate two-minute noodles for months on end because that's all we could afford, carried and birthed him three beautiful children am declared unreasonable for suggesting that MD can simply go fuck herself.

So, I ask, what makes men think so differently to women? Why do they so fear telling the truth? They can start world wars from the safety of an office desk, but they seem unable to say, "Mum, why are you so selfish and self-absorbed? Would it be so hard to boil up some pasta for your daughter-in-law and grandkids?"

I know males aren't born that way – my eldest boy is, at the tender age of 8, far wiser than I am on a number of levels. So, what happens? Is it hormones? Is it societal roles that we just adapt to without even knowing it? Or is it the mothers themselves? Do mothers raise boys somehow differently, expecting more on some levels and infinitely less in regards to others? Or is it about the way some mothers represent themselves? Has Mommy Dearest knowingly raised a boy who has turned into a man who will never tell her the truth because she has marketed herself as fragile and unable to cope?

Whatever the reason I encourage male readers to make two solemn promises today. Promise the woman who continues to share your bed despite your flaws that you will always look up to see if the lights are on and look down to check for peanut-butter crusts.

Plastic Fantastic

2009-11-09T04:24:00.000-05:00

I've got a friend. Actually, I had a friend. I now have someone who calls me asking to throw parties so she can sell her wares. This young woman - let's call her Plastic Fantastic, used to be a really good friend. We spent many a night watching bad movies, eating bowls of cookies n' cream ice-cream smothered in hot chocolate fudge and Baileys, drinking goblets of cheap red wine and gossiping and commiserating over one guy or another. She knew my husband and I before we were my husband and I, she has been auntie to my children. Then she met Mr You-Got-To-Spend-Money-To-Make-Money.

Mr You-Got-To-Spend-Money-To-Make-Money is constantly investing thousands of dollars, which by the way he does not have, in an attempt to make his fortune. He does not have the brains to realise that he has in fact already spent that fortune investing in the incredibly dodgy Fashion Slick who is taking him for all he's got - and a bit of what he doesn't have. Fashion Slick has convinced Mr YGTSMTMM to pay all his expenses while he lives overseas "designing" and "promoting" a range of the world's crappiest t-shirts - you know, the ones with skulls and graffiti font which Target sold in the late 1990s. Watching Mr YGTSMTMM around Fashion Slick is like watching the fat dork in the fourth grade who has been tossed a bone by the cool kids. "Oh my god! I'm sitting with the cool kids! This is soooo great. Okay, so I have to do their homework and give them my lunch money. But who cares? By sheer osmosis I will become cool by being near them, right?" Wrong.

Plastic Fantastic has changed considerably since meeting and marrying Mr YGTSMTMM. Mostly, she's become less financially secure as her beloved spends all her money. And her parents' money. And his own parents' money. She has decided that like her entrepreneurial hubby she doesn't want to work in the conventional sense. She's got a two year-old she believes would be irreparably harmed if he had to suffer through childcare with the rest of our pleb children. She doesn't want to rely on her mother-in-law to babysit while she's at work - although she seems happy to rely on her when she wants to shop, go out with friends, or when she just needs a break. In short - she's lazy. So, in lieu of the hum drum life of getting your arse to work to earn a buck, she's decided the best way to make up for the financial hole her husband is digging for them is to sell stuff.

Now, this in itself is not a bad thing. I have plenty of friends who have gone into business for themselves and I support all of them with my heart and soul. In fact, I am faintly jealous of those who have a marketable talent. However, none of these friends have ever asked me to sell stuff for them. Plastic Fantastic has gone from being a close friend who I could talk to for hours to the woman whose phone calls I now dread because they are always bound in what she wants me to do for her. She never calls to see how I am, to arrange to catch up for a drink or a coffee, she never wants to see a movie or go for a walk, she now wants to explain how she's calling on everyone she knows to support her during "challenge week".

I don't claim to be the world's greatest gal pal. I know I could be better at the whole "just calling to say..." thing. I recognise that often I become self-absorbed and forget about those around me - those who I love and cherish even if I'm unable to say it (but that's a whole other issue). However, I would like to think that I don't actively set out to take advantage of those who once relied on me for friendship. I would like to think that if I ever decided to abandon the classroom in favour of a new and not so exciting business venture I would seek my friends' emotional and mental support NOT their ability to sell my product of choice to their friends for me. I would like to think that I could attend a dinner party without talking non-stop about my new life as a plastic fantastic rep. I would like to think that I could call my friends and knowing it was me, they would still pick up the phone.

Parent Teacher Nightmare

2009-08-05T06:14:00.001-04:00

Certainly one of the most dreaded evenings on any teacher's calendar is Parent Teacher Interview evenings. Well last night was that night, and what a night it was. Most of the interviews went quite smoothly, as I must admit they normally do. Sure you always get your crazies. Towards the top of my list was Anxious Mother #457 who spent 12 minutes telling me how her daughter is not fulfilling her potential, not doing enough work and is getting fat, but she can't understand why her daughter is experiencing so much pressure that she is developing insomnia. It's a mystery, really...

However, in terms of firsts for me, last night was a big one. Never before in my teaching career have I uttered the words, "I'm really sorry, there's absolutely nothing I can do for your son". And yet, here I was in front of a student I shall call Meathead (I think the name pretty much explains a large part of the problem), his parents, Meathead Snr and Disempowered Mum, blatantly dashing all hopes for any academic success. Now let me be clear. I teach many bright kids and, like most teachers I also teach my share of idiots, but Meathead is a special sort of idiot. Meathead can't understand why it might be inappropriate to cut up his coke can with a pair of scissors in the middle of my lesson. Equally, he finds it incomprehensible as to why he can't take phone calls in the middle of class, after all, what are mobiles for? In fact, he believes I should attempt to ensure less noise in the classroom if he is compelled to answer his iphone. Meathead felt personally taken aback by my suggestion that he actually do some homework. He feels this would adversely impact on his (and I quote) "right to enjoy my childhood". Is he fucking kidding? His right to enjoy his childhood? He's eighteen for Christ sake! Granted, intellectually he is probably more suited to the comedic genius of programs such as "Australia's Funniest Home Videos" rather than our current study of "Citizen Kane", but nonetheless - "childhood"?! I almost choked on my lukewarm coffee and stale shortbread biscuit left over from the last Parent Teacher Evening. Meathead feels that once he's at Uni he will then begin any academic endeavours that may appeal to his pint sized brain. The question of how he's going to get to Uni has not, at this stage, even occurred to this little Einstein.

Meathead Snr appeared close to punching the fruit of his loins in the head. Disempowered Mum had tears in her eye. The maths teacher they had seen before me had to explain how Meathead had recently drawn an enormous penis on the classroom floor. She expressed how offended she was by the image and I'm pretty sure it wasn't because of its poor artistic quality. Meathead couldn't understand why she was offended, as he so eloquently put it, "What's your problem? You didn't have to touch it."

The way I see it I currently have three available options.

Option 1 - I rely on Meathead self-reflecting and searching his soul, beginning to feel guilty about the hell he's putting his parents through and experiencing a change of heart and mind. But I think we all know what my chances are of that happening.

Option 2 - I keep Meathead after school every day until he starts to do some work. But the work is half-arsed at best, he hates me for what he perceives to be punishing him and he purposely fucks up the exam to get back at me.

Option 3 - Leave Meathead to enjoy his "childhood" and pray to god I never have to each the fruit of his loins.

Option 3 it is.

The Treadmill

2009-07-24T03:59:00.000-04:00

A dear friend wrote a blog recently outlining the difficult position women - particularly mothers - are in today. She spoke of a dinner shared by three female friends all of whom are letting something go in order to simply stay on the 'treadmill' of life. Due to a lack of time and financial backing one is reluctant to pursue the opportunity to turn an amazing talent into a business, putting all her energy into the daily pressures of running a family and making sure the mortgage is paid by submitting to a dead-end job. Another is so determined that everything appear perfect - her house, her hair, her clothes, her children, that she is marching head first into a nervous breakdown that is right around the corner from her next manicure. The third woman, is smart, funny and generous. She manages to work, run her own business and take care of three children, but like most women, does not look after her own health. She is about to fall off the treadmill because she didn't listen to the advice of every airline steward; "Make sure your mask is securely fitted before you attempt to assist others."

Three women. All educated, all intelligent and articulate. All are married to comparatively great guys, men willing to do their share of the domestic tasks, men who are supportive husbands and active fathers. As an outsider looking in, I would say that while each of these women are currently facing a particular challenge, by and large, in the post-modern sense of the word, these three chicks have it "all". However, as one of these women I recognise the crippling effect of that continual self-doubt which nags away at us. Women brave it all. We wake up, get the kids dressed, give them breakfast, make sure their school bags are packed, make sure we're dressed, no baby-spit on the shoulder, speed the offspring to school and child-care, race down to work, smile and nod and pray everyone likes us. We hurry to the after-school pick up, make sure the kids eat, bathe, do their homework. We read them a story, tuck them into bed, and then we start whatever take-home work we have. In between of course, we feed the cat and the dog, do the dishes, pick up the cushions off floor, put the toys away so no one breaks their neck, chauffeur the kids to swimming, soccer, dance, parties, play dates and feel guilty for not spending enough time with them. We squeeze in romantic date nights in an attempt to make ourselves feel human. We rush to waxing appointments, facial appointments, manicures, pedicures. We pick up the dry-cleaning, pay the bills and fold the laundry. We have unsatisfying sex just so we can tick something else off our To-Do list. We do all this with a smile plastered across our face. A smile that proclaims to the world, "I'm okay. I've got everything under complete control." But under the smile, deep inside, the part of ourselves that only gets a voice late at night when we lay in the dark, our husbands obliviously snoring beside us, is breaking apart.

The cracks start small. The little failures that rationally we know have been forgotten by everyone else, haunt us on these dark nights. We magnify them. We begin to believe that's all that we are, our failures - no matter how small or how random. The confidence we display to the world disappears and we are twelve years old again, scared that the popular kids are going to mean to us and that we will have to spend lunchtime in a toilet cubicle to avoid the humiliation of being alone. We look at ourselves through a microscope, critique our flaws more harshly than any enemy would. We find reasons why our achievements are not REAL achievements, why we could have done more, done better, why we could be more, be better.

We're old enough to know that crying doesn't help. If we're lucky we have a select group of friends we feel comfortable sharing select moments of weakness with. Maybe the problem is the myth that was sold to us women who were born post-third wave feminism. We were told we could have it all. The reality is however, that we now have to be it all. For most of the women I know, we are caught between balancing any career aspirations we may have with the very sobering realisation that time is fast running out. That despite the push to move women into the public sphere, for most of us we are held back by the fact that like our grandmothers and great-grandmothers we still believe that we should be last in line. We continually put everyone else first. Our children, our partners, our parents, our friends, our colleagues. We could choose to fight it. We could tell the world to go get fucked and claim what should be ours. But we don't. Most of us simply acknowledge that life is unfair and we just need to suck it up and keep running on that damn treadmill.

Mr Pleather

2009-07-18T05:09:00.000-04:00

A friend's husband, a man known in e-circles as The Great Pretender, commented the other day that from my infrequent rantings one would think that the only students to people the school I currently teach at are feral, unintelligent, rude neanderthals. I would like to clarify that this is not the case. I have taught, and continue to teach some students who are truly amazing individuals - they challenge me, open my mind to new ideas and concepts, and teach me about the world and often, about myself. When they leave my classroom, I am better for the time we spent together.

So, in order to balance the proverbial scales I am compelled to send out a hearty salute to all those moron teachers out there. You know the type - earring still in one ear, none the wiser that that particular fashion went out in 1987, haircut from about the same vintage and pleather jacket purchased from some dodgy Vic Market stall. A man whose singular ambition in his career is to make less work for himself, and if nothing else, THAT he is succeeding at. Well, Mr Pleather has managed to slither his way up the slippery pole of educational advancement and is now Head of a major faculty - and true to his cause he is doing his darnedest to make sure that all teachers in his department are losing whatever passion they used to have for educating young minds. He doesn't hold meetings with his colleagues, his 'team' as he insists on calling them (only one tiny step away from 'comrades'), he holds lectures. Opinions from other teachers? Viewpoints from those who have greater experience and might I suggest greater intelligence? Don't be ridiculous. What could there be that Mr Pleather doesn't know? He sends out emails with the subject heading: "Please print and retain" (yes, I'm serious), letting everyone know that his word is only second to god's.

And then to a man who believes his word is equal to god's. Sorry, that's insulting - greater than god's. It is the ever-rising corner office chaser. To those who think individuals who chase those middle management positions and the office furniture that comes with it only exist in the corporate world - think again. Only in education, instead of views of the city skyline, you get a big window that looks out onto the back of some crappy 70s building and kids walking by, giving each other the latest on who sucked what Saturday night. One particular corner office chaser has literally screwed up every job, every minute task he has been given. Every program he has meant to run has been such a debacle the school has been forced to hand it over, broken and in pieces, to someone else to fix. The peak of his professionalism, in my humble opinion, came in an email to an entire Senior School with an attached timetable and the note: "If you notice that there are clashes for you or your students, please fix them among yourselves" - awe inspiring. Does he get sacked? No. Demoted? Ney. Lose the precious corner office? Neyt. Does he continue to sit with that smarmy little grin, ruddy cheeks and yellowing teeth in that corner office? He certainly does. Does he strut around the place in hideous neon shirts with clashing ties, also circa 1987? Nod, nod, nod. Like in every other industry, in education, shit often rises to the top.

Just as I suffer through the infantile little shits who can sit at the desks in my classroom, there are brilliant young people being subjected to the likes of Mr Pleather and the corner office chaser. So, are the scales even? Sure. We're all being screwed.

In these harsh economic times...

2009-06-05T03:28:00.000-04:00

I am not actually writing my blog at this moment. You THINK that's what I'm doing, but the reality is, I am just avoiding writing reports. I've written a few, two classes worth to be precise, but I'm struggling. I am struggling with finding new and hopefully less offensive ways of expressing my professional view that "your child is a complete waste of space, taking up much needed oxygen from those with more than one operating brain cell", or "your money would be better spent on a trip to Europe than to fork out one more cent in an attempt to educate the moronic, self-absorbed human being you insisted inflicting on this good earth".

I've been hearing lots these days about the supposed harsh economic times we currently find ourselves in. Between that and swine-flu it's all I can do to keep myself driving headlong into the "Dans Plants" sign whose lack of required apostrophe taunts me every day on my drive to work. So, it would make sense that in these times of gloom and doom parents having enough faith in their children to plonk down an obscene amount of money in an effort to make them better educated global citizens should fill me with warmth and optimism, right? Wrong.

I know I should feel good about the fact that parents are willing to make financial sacrifices for the education of their children, but the fact remains I don't. I am frightfully scared of the fact that in these harsh economic times those who will continue to gain from the bounties of private school education are going to increasingly be the children of the rich - and if I have learnt one thing from my time in the wonders of what 'A Current Affair' likes to call 'one of Melbourne's elite private schools', it is that, in most cases, the children of the rich have no idea what it's like to not be rich. Most assume they are entitled to everything the world has to give. Hard work? That's for someone else. Dedication? No need. Striving despite initial failure? Mummy and Daddy said I would never fail and a school system that continues to pass me despite my lack of ability and effort, simply because my parents pay the fees reinforces that notion quite nicely, thank you very much.

Those students whose parents hold down two jobs and who work tirelessly to take full advantage of the offerings of a private school, will unfortunately be the ones to go. They will be the ones who end up in State School High languishing in overcrowded, under-resourced classrooms with teachers who should have been sacked years ago, but can't be because they haven't molested anyone yet. Meanwhile the princesses who laugh in your face when you suggest they come in over their holidays to make up for the worked they missed will remain, far more enthralled with the images of themselves in their Mac's PhotoBooth than they are with anything you may have to teach them.

And so, in these harsh economic times, I beg of you, if you are lucky enough to have some spare cash floating around and you are honest enough with yourself to recognise that thanks to your poor parenting your child is one of those wasting p precious educational space and oxygen, do the world and yourself a favour. Take that trip to Europe. And take along that poor partial scholarship student whose father is scrubbing toilets in an effort to give his kid a future. That child might be able to see beyond themselves and their iPhone and take in the wonders the wide world has to offer. They might even appreciate it.

A Whore By Any Other Name

2009-05-15T06:51:00.000-04:00

So, today at work I was called a whore. Yep, that's right, you heard. W-H-O-R-E. Now I know what you're thinking. There are not may places of business where a young man can get away with calling a young woman a whore without having a sexual harassment suit slapped on him. In most organisations, a man even thinking about this word would be brought up in-front of some otherwise redundant merit and equity board in a vain attempt to avoid a multi-million dollar payout and some overly made-up ex-employee crying her eyes out on that evening's episode of 'A Current Affair' And yet thankfully there does exist one last bastion of true personal freedom. One last place in which political correctness or even basic courtesy is more of a suggestion rather than an expectation. One last place in which people can feel safe in the knowledge that they can pretty much say and do whatever they please and as long as it is followed up by some sort of vague, mumbled apology, or even an "I won't do it again". Where is this place you ask? Where does the phrase 'freedom of speech' really mean all that it promises? I'll tell you where. A high school classroom.

Of course, it's only actually students who have the benefit of such wonderful liberties. If I, as a teacher were to indulge in such freedoms I would be declared unprofessional. If I as a teacher were to respond to this young man with something along the lines of, "Listen to me you pathetic little Zac Efron wannabe, the only thing less attractive than your poxy, acne riddled face, is your egotistical attitude, which by the way you have no right to. You're neither intelligent enough, good looking enough nor talented enough to warrant that titanic size chip on your puny little shoulder", I would be deemed unworthy of the title educator.

The government keeps crying out for more people to join the wonderful world of education. They debate higher pay-scales, refurbishing school buildings, modernising classrooms. They discuss making teacher training longer, shorter, more practical, more theoretical. Smaller class sizes, more support, less interference. Yet no one is discussing the real problem. It takes a special sort of person to get up every day knowing that the chances of being personally attacked and abused are pretty damn high.

When I told my husband about the incident, he declared it a 'learning experience' for the young man in question. I maintain little Zac Efron may have learnt more from a swift kick in the nuts.

Prince Lank Hair

2009-04-02T04:15:00.000-04:00

I am a parent and a teacher. Don't ask me which one I am first and foremost. I honestly would not be able to tell you. Depends on the day. The one thing I can say for certain is that my experience in education has helped inform the parent I am. I have seen the 'other side'. I have seen seventeen year-old drop kicks whose parents are investing $20,000 a year for an elite private school education , but who don't find it necessary to support that particular investment by, I don't know, trying to make sure that their offspring develop a semblance of personal responsibility.

I am about to tell you a tale. A tale of a young man. Let's call him Lank Hair. Lank Hair is attempting his VCE this year. More precisely, he is enrolled in his VCE this year. He is attempting nothing. Sorry - he is making a valiant attempt to get back at his parents for whatever sins they may have committed against him, by throwing his current academic future down the proverbial toilet.

Lank Hair is not stupid. He is quite a perceptive young man. Overestimates his own ability just a tad, but hey, who doesn't? Given his academic ability and his recent decision to do poorly in order to make Mommy and Daddy Lank Hair suffer, his Head of House (elite private school speak for poor schmuck who has to deal with the social and emotional issues of the often spoilt-rotten little cretins who attend the wondrously elite institution) decides to call in the parentals to stage an intervention. Who needs a lunchtime when there is this sort of entertainment on offer?

So Mommy Lank Hair walks in - complete with see-through top and lacy bra showing. Nice. Classy. Head of House (HOH)? Check. Head of Boys? Check. Maths teacher? Check. English teacher? Check. Religion and Society teacher? Legal Studies teacher? Sorry - he's off having a fag. Thinly veiled attempt to finally get sacked. But that's a whole different story. Lank Hair sits on a chair, head down. Not shame, just boredom. Lank Hair proceeds to make excuses. "It's because I don't like maths", "But you used to love maths." protests mum. "Exactly." HOH nods thoughtfully. HOB nods thoughtfully. I stare. I'm happy to admit it, I just don't get it. I'm sorry, but what the hell does that mean??? He doesn't like maths because he used to like maths? That doesn't even make sense!

Lank Hair then proceeds to blame everyone in the world for his failings. Maths teacher has no control over her classroom, English teacher has too much control. Legal Studies doesn't care enough, R&S cares too much. Now, this in itself is not unusual. Teenagers are brilliant at finding reasons why they can't/didn't/shouldn't do what they need to do. But the real highlight in this story is this mother. Mommy Lank Hair with her tits spilling out all over the elite private school conference table, proceeds to "Mmmmm..." and "I totally understand where he's coming from."

I'll tell you where he's coming from. He's coming from an indulgent mother who provides her son with every excuse he needs to fail and blame everybody else in the world for it. He's coming from a mother who tells to a room full of educators that poor Prince Lank Hair is simply "misunderstood", instead of giving him the kick up the bum that he needs. He's coming from a household where his parents have probably bought his shit for years. They've probably helped him mold and create it. He's coming from a woman who has confused being able to pay private school fees with being able to parent.

So, if you are a parent contemplating spending upwards of $20,000 per annum on the education of your little precious, think carefully. Yes, you will get some of the most amazing educators teaching your child. Yes, you will get some incredible facilities for your child to enjoy during their schooling years. But when you decide to make this investment, make sure that you understand your part in all of this. $20,000 buys your kid an opportunity. It is you, as the parent, who needs to make sure that your child is brought up in a manner which will enable them to take advantage of this opportunity. Make sure your child has an understanding of personal responsibility. Make sure you never make excuses for them or allow them to make excuses for themselves. And for god's sake, if, despite all your efforts, you are called in to school, make sure you dress appropriately.

Four sleeps to go...

2009-03-30T06:59:00.000-04:00

Four more sleeps till the end of Term. The only ones more excited than the students are us poor teachers.

Like many in the wonderful world of education I love my job and loathe my job. I adore the kids who challenge me every day and I want to wring their necks. My job makes me a better person but it also causes me to drink way too much. It makes me ponder the choices I have made thus far and be thankful and regretful. It helps me know how to be a better parent, but allows me far less patience when I walk through the door at night.

Perhaps most importantly however, it makes me want to kill people who utter the words, "It must be so great having all those holidays". It's not "great", it's necessary. Those precious non-instructional periods are what allow us teachers to continue on beating our heads against brick walls and pushing shit uphill. Note my use of the term 'non-instructional period'. Holidays are spent at the beach or lounging around the house. Holidays imply travel, excitement or at the very least, a moment of stress-free existence. Holidays are not about Year 12 students text messaging you the latest in a series of inane queries. Holidays are not about marking 60 Language Analysis essays, most of which make you want to read Andrew Bolt just so you can feel something again. Holidays are not about planning the next 10 weeks of work.

And so, I go to bed tonight desperately anticipating my 14 day non-instructional period in the vain hope that a couple of weeks away will make we want to kill the buggers just a little bit less.